


Please, Come Back

by Angelicallyinsane699



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Inspired by Vocaloid song!, M/M, Revolutionary War, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 05:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicallyinsane699/pseuds/Angelicallyinsane699
Summary: The war raged on from 1775 to 17783, a long war that was eventually lost on England's end and yet England can not accept it. Why? He couldn't grasp it, he couldn't accept it. Why? Why did he do this? How could he do this?





	Please, Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Please, Don't Have Laid Down Your Life covered by SaticRabbit and I swear this almost makes me cry almost every damn time I listen to it. Then I thought, since people referred to Italy and HRE with the concept I thought about why not England and America? I wanted to try and put as much grief and emotion as I could into the writing, so I hope it's good! Or, well, not good if it makes people sad (though I don't know what sadness other people feel) but here it is! This is also really, really short, but I wrote this when I was pretty tired and I'm hoping that what I don't make up for in length will kinda make up for..something. But anyways this is what I came up with at 11:43 PM! 
> 
> P.S - I have officially nearly made myself cry, this song is just so goddamn sad! I just...ugh, I need to cry!
> 
> Another P.S - Other than stating I am officially nearly grossly sobbing because of this song, the 'America/England' tag is accurate even if it does not seem like it but I have put in little nuggets to them being lovers in here! It's just not bold as that's not the main focus but I just thought I'd say that as well!

_"I'm sorry, England."_

England sat outside on his front porch feeling the soft breeze stirring his hair but it felt like an idle, faint sensation to him, as he stared straight down the familiar dirt road. He sat and he stared, a cold feeling slithered through him and pulsed spreading outwards to his limbs until he felt like he was nothing but a hollow creature made of ice. Those three words echoed in his mind as he stared down the road and he took a jagged breath inwards making his chest expand and his lungs greedily take the air in when he wondered why his body could still need it but he couldn't feel it as well as before. All it did was make those jagged razor blades race up and down his nerves, feeding the pain like a fire and he closed his eyes at the feeling gritting his teeth through the pain until it would dull down again.

Just one more time. He just wanted one more time, to go back, to fix this and see him again. He opened his eyes feeling his jaw clench tighter when he stared the dirt road standing up walking to the railing of his porch staring intently waiting. He gripped the railing like it was an anchor tethering him to the Earth even as he felt like he had nothing to hold onto and was drowning, drowning, drowning, screaming for air even if those screams no longer left his lips. Not while he was awake, at least, and he gripped the wood so tight the wood threatened to splinter into his hands and his knuckles were white as he clung desperately to the physical item even if it felt to him like nothing.

His chest felt too tight, his body was heavy, and it was bothersome to breath as it fed into that razor pain that threatened to shred him to pieces starting from his very cells in his body and he couldn't take it. He wanted to hear the footsteps pounding up the dirt road, wanted to see the bright smile that would greet him the one that would spread even wider if possible when those sky blue eyes caught onto him. Wanted to hold that small boy to him, tightly, to keep him from growing up so fast in his absence, wanted to hear the cheerful laugh as he flung himself at England and tackle him into the door when he forgot to hold back that strength that could easily lift a buffalo when he was just a toddler. He wanted to feel the strong grip, wanted to see those eyes staring at him adoringly.

Like he could create the sun and Earth itself and that beautiful, high voice before it cracked and changed, call his name while he rushed into their familiar greeting. He wanted to hear that voice, the one he loved so desperately, say his name over and over until he felt like he would finally drown. He swallowed thickly, bowing his head clenching his jaw so tight he felt like he might just shatter his teeth as he struggled breathes in and out that just fed into the pain that burned and licked at England from the inside out and he had to keep his knees from buckling. Why? Why? What had he done wrong? Where did he go wrong? He knew, saw it, where he went wrong but he couldn't admit that it was him rather than King George, but in the end if he couldn't shove that blame onto the King then who was responsible?

Who was responsible for his America to run away? To claim Independence? Who was responsible for the bitter war that lasted those long eight years? Who was responsible for taking his bright, blue eyes that reflected his sky turn so dark and empty like thunder heads of disdain? Of resentment?

"Stop!" England whimpered lifting his hands to hold his hair tightly in his hands, hunching his shoulders to make the pain tolerable but even if the smooth movement seemed natural to the first glance he felt like his muscles were jumping and jerking. Like they had never moved until this moment and now that he moved they couldn't figure out how to move properly and they ached painfully.

He was so cold. So cold. So cold. So cold. He just wanted to see him one more time, he just wanted to see those blue eyes looking at him with the one true emotion other than that horrible disdain and resentment. He wanted to just hear the voice of love, adoring joy, call out to him and he just wanted to hold him one more time. One more time, just one more time. It was the one thing he clung too so desperately and yet it wasn't enough, it was never enough, it just caused the flaming razor blade pain to eat at him and breathing hurt. Eating hurt. Yanking his heavy body out of bed every day hurt. He hurt and he couldn't stop hurting until he saw him but he refused to see him. He was terrified he'd never see him, never run his hands through that caramel shade of blonde hair, never see the blue eyes reflecting the sky. That he'd never hold his hand once more, never see him grow to his full potential.

He was sick, he knew, for loving his baby brother the way he did and he knew to humans it would seem sickeningly wrong, incestuous even, but he just couldn't help it. He loved him so badly he couldn't stand it and yet he ached for him to be the small child he'd found that first day, the child who eagerly sat in his lap for bedtime stories. Who loved his songs, encouraging him to sing before bed time as well, who reassured him that there was no such things as monster's under his bed. He just wanted to recapture those nights and days again, wanted to be there more and hold onto him longer, tighter, never let him go. He lifted his head to stare down the road, like the thoughts of him, the wishing, the staring would make that familiar caramel blonde hair appear and those sparkling eyes to meet his once more.

He gasped in a breath sounding choked, like he was being strangled, the sun beginning to peek over the horizon and turn the once dark somber colors of the world into bright crisp colors. How? How could the sun keep turning? How could the days keep flowing so easily? How can everyone keep going on like nothing had happened? Like those eight years were nothing? 

He bowed his head, hunching his shoulders, when he felt his knees buckle once before he straightened up refusing to give in yet to the waves of pain waiting for him. The waves that lapped at his toes, it seemed, like a shoreline waiting for him eagerly to dunk head first into the waters and never return. He clung to the railing in front of him yet again when he noticed the newspaper by the steps of his porch and wondered how he missed it. He never kept the newspaper, never, he shredded it after Canada got his fill of reading it but he still felt too pained to stare at the face on the black and white pages staring back. He couldn't. He wasn't strong enough.

He heard the door open behind him and he closed his eyes struggling to breath right and not gasp like he was drowning. "He's not going to come, England." Canada's voice was soft and steady, soft with his sadness when England shifted.

"I know." How could two words sound more choked? How could he even get them out of his tight throat? Forced his mouth to move to speak them?

"He hasn't written back either." Canada softly said again from the doorway and he fidgeted lightly. "You need to stop doing this, England. He's not coming back."

The words nearly made England cry out when he clung to the railing tighter than before, with a whole new round of strength and he shut his eyes fighting the shrieks that wanted to bubble up. To deny it, to insist that he was going to come home, that he was going to walk down that dirt road to this house any minute now, that he was indeed waiting for something. And yet he forced them out again. "I know."

"Then why do you wait, England? Why do you do this to yourself?" Canada asked sounding exasperated and desperate to understand even with the lack of words from England. The green eyed Nation just clenched his jaw and refused to answer, couldn't get them out and he couldn't tell him. Was it such a crime, such a taboo, to wait for him? To long to hear his voice shouting his name as he ran to him joyfully?

He just needed one more time. One more damn time. He stared down at the white railing clenched tight in his hands so tight his knuckles were equally as white, his agony ripping up and eating away at him. He just wanted America to meet him, one more time, like they had the night before he declared his independence. To hear his lovely voice calling his name, holding him so tight his skin hurt, his bones in his wrists grind together in pain, and how he did so without no mercy, taking what he wanted and how England held him through all of it. How he and him made those vows, that one day that they'd be together, live their lives together for years to come and they'd never be lonely. But had it all been lies? He wasn't sure, just like he wasn't sure of when Canada had come so close to touch his back, and he wasn't sure when he had gasped for air.

He clung so tightly to those memories, even when they cut him deeper and deeper until he felt the bleeding would never stop and he'd never heal. Yet the pain was so perfect, so sweet and so beautiful it was agonizing as he clung to the railing. He tried, so desperately, to keep it down but the wordless shrieks and screams clawed out of him and escaped his mouth until his throat threatened to crack and until he faintly tasted metallic blood in his mouth when a new reaction came out. He felt them dripping down his face so face, like mercury across a table, they slid with no mercy and didn't stop as he sobbed and gulped for air that only fueled more sobs that choked him.

"Please!" He couldn't decipher shrieks from words before but now he could and he couldn't stop the words from spilling out as he sobbed uncontrollably, his cheeks flushing. He couldn't stop them from tumbling out and he didn't want too as he clung to the railing, like that would still tether him to the world while the pain cut him through and over and over again. "Please, come home! _Please!_ Come back to me! Please, America! _Please,_ come back to me!"


End file.
